


no time like the present

by tosca1390



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390





	no time like the present

*

 

“Sam, they’ll expect us out there sooner or later,” Ainsley says matter-of-factly as Sam pulls her towards the office that was Josh’s but is now his. 

The West Wing is quiet, almost deathly so. Everyone is at the cocktail hour for the newly-elected president of Argentina, drinking the stresses of another day and another fight with a resistant Congress down before indulging in too much food and more alcohol. Sam had been determined to forget his hellish day and pine for California with his Jack Daniels on the rocks before Ainsley walked in. 

“Sam, really. You’re the Deputy Chief of Staff. This is highly inappropriate,” she says, voice light and easy.

He shuffles them into his office and shuts the door behind them. “I need your help,” he says, locking the door. 

Ainsley lifts an eyebrow and smiles soft and slow. “Imagine that.”

She sits on the arm of his couch, her ankles crossed demurely. Her black silk sheath dress clings to her hips and thighs, her skin paler than pale against the dark fabric. Tonight her hair lay long and straight over her shoulders and down her back. She likes to wear it back for functions; this is a gift for him.

He steps towards her, a knee on either side of her hips. His hands slide up her bare arms and follow the line of her v-shaped neckline. Goosebumps rise along her skin at his touch. “You know how I feel about this dress, Ainsley.”

She tilts her head, eyes warm. “Of course I do. You picked it out for me. I do so enjoy shopping with you.”

“It isn’t shopping, it was a suggestion,” he retorts as he kneels in front of her. His hands slide over her breasts and stomach and down over her legs to the hem of her evening dress. 

“You’re full of those, aren’t you?” she says, her voice only faintly breathy. 

He slides the skirt of her dress up and up, over smooth lean thighs to the jut of her hipbones. She lifts her hips to accommodate him; he thinks then of California, and how he could be missing all this pale soft skin. “I asked for a couch just for this reason, you know,” he said after a moment. 

“What reason is that?”

Instead of speaking, he presses his mouth along the length of her thigh. A hand finds its way into his short-shorn hair, tugging at it as she shudders out a breath. “Oh. I see,” she whispers. 

He can’t wait; he’s never been the picture of patience. Gently he bites along the lines of her thighs and to the soft satin of her panties. He breaths against the warm skin and mouths her cunt through the fabric, tasting the slick warm of her and groaning. She arches into his mouth, shaking on the arm of the couch. 

It wouldn’t be like this, with anyone else. He wouldn’t want to do something this rash, this public with anyone else. He tugs down her underwear and licks her without a barrier, and she moans, low and slow and drawn-out. Her accent swells in times like these and he loves the sound, loves the pitch and roundness of her vowels. 

Her fingertips dig into his scalp as he slips two fingers into her, his tongue flat on her clit. “Sam—Sam,” she breathes out over and over, rocking her hips into his touch until she can’t help but fall back into the couch cushions with a startled gasp.

Mouth slick from her, he leans back on his heels and stands. He looks at her, blonde and pale against the deep brown leather of his couch. Her skirt is bunched at her waist, her hair falling around her like a curtain of straw. Skin flushed, she reaches for him. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. 

In climbing over her and moving into her, he wrinkles his suit pants and her skirt. She muffles her moans into his freshly-starched shirt, biting at his shoulder through the cotton. Her heels press into the small of his back, scuffing the pristine white of his shirt. If they are ruffled and flushed when they come out into the tail end of the cocktail hour, no one notices. He sits through dinner with her lipstick on the shoulder of his shirt, hidden safely under his jacket; she wears no underwear and the thought drives him wild.

Later, he takes her, skirt and heels and all, against the door of his apartment. She tears a few buttons off his shirt and swears high and soft, all Southern-sweet sex appeal. 

He fists a hand into her dress and presses on, without a thought for the past. 

*


End file.
